The Dinner Party
by Kayzel
Summary: Combine a pinch of questionable conversation with a dash of long-winded speech. Add a hint of spiteful ribbing and a helping of uninvited peeps. Recipe yield: a perfectly-soured Coupling dinner party, served neat. A Coupling/Monarch of the Glen story.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a Coupling/Monarch of the Glen Fan Fiction. _

_Denver Zend is a character of my own creation. All other characters and their respective worlds I do not own._

_**The Dinner Party**_

_**Chapter 1**_

_**What the **** Are Haricots Verts?**_

_**7:15 pm Saturday Evening**_

_**Susan & Steve's Flat**_

Susan Walker, polished career woman by day, amateur culinary whiz nights and weekends popped a tray of fingerling potatoes dusted generously with salt, pepper and paprika, glistening with a thick, rich sheen of olive oil, onto the oven rack beside a roasting leg of lamb. In a mere twenty minutes—she'd set the egg-shaped kitchen timer with the horrendously loud tick and sharp ring as a precautionary backup measure—the petite starchy vegetables would be crisped to perfection, the meat ready to rest on the teakwood cutting board.

This task completed, Susan commenced searching the small flat for her—what was he really? The term boyfriend seemed at once juvenile and past its prime but significant other, though Steve Taylor had steadily become a very significant part of Susan's life, felt too ambiguous. And fiancé—since as of yet no ring was involved—a bit presumptuous, if not a down-right relationship jinx.

Thoughts of the dinner party planned for that evening replacing her beau-naming contemplations, she called after him, "Steve? You did tell the lads to be here round eight, didn't you?" Turning the corner she found him in their bedroom posturing before a full-length mirror. "Steve? What are you doing?"

"One of my calves," he twisted his frame to better see his reflection, the bright color of his plaid boxers looking garish against the pale, virtually hairless skin of his legs, "is bigger than the other." Not posing boastfully but, rather, engaged in a full-fledged scrutiny of his lower limbs, he implored of Susan, "Look," he flexed and released both calf muscles in turns, "the right one's larger than the left!"

"Right, listen," said Susan, ignoring his concerns, "What time did you tell the lads to come round?"

"What time?"

"Yes. Did you say eight? I hope you told them eight."

Steve shrugged, "Yeah, sure," he hesitated, turning his back to wipe the nervous sweat forming on his brow and upper lip with a limp sock destined for the laundry hamper, "yup, that's what I told them." Donning a pair of khakis, he tucked in his oxford blue shirt and timidly added, his face still hidden from view, "I think."

Susan took a deep breath and when she spoke her tone, one she reserved only for when she sought an immediate truth took on a matronly, school marmish quality, "Steve Taylor, what do you mean you think? This is crucial! Focus, will you! What time did you actually tell them?"

"Eightish?"

"Eightish!?"

"Well I don't know."

"You don't know? How could you not know?"

"What about my calves, Susan," Steve insisted, his voice rising in pitch as he hitched up his pant legs, "What do you think about my calves? There's that to consider right now!"

"Oh bugger off about your calves, Steve!"

"Well I can't remember exactly what time I said."

"What do you mean you can't remember exactly? It was just this past Thursday, Steve."

"Yes, two whole days ago, Susan. And at the time, you were yelling at me."

"Me? Yelling? Oh don't be ridiculous! I was not!"

"You were."

"Come off it, Steve." Susan headed back to the kitchen.

"Fine then," Steve followed behind her, "you were screaming. Screaming on and on about those bloody beans."

"What? Steve, I was not screaming on and on about those bloody…look I was excited, okay?"

"Excited or not," he complained, "you were screaming so loud, had to keep my mobile an arm's distance away from my ear."

"Screaming so loud? No, dear I was shouting. There's a distinct difference between screaming and shouting. Thursday I was excited. Very excited and my voice reflected it. I was attempting to shout above the mobbed market fray! Push past the seasoned crowd of crunchy granolas in their staid, colorless hemp frocks all wielding their straw baskets like police armor, their reusable cloth sacks pinned beneath their unshaven armpits. You want to hear screaming, Steve? Because this here, this is screaming!!"

"Susan, really, you've lost it. All of this fuss over some blasted French string beans?" Steve tossed the basket of freshly trimmed beans which lay in wait on the counter.

Grabbing hold of the basket, Susan clutched it to her breast, codling the thin, crisp strands of bright green veg like they were a delicate newborn.

"Fuss? Yes, I'm willing to make a fuss over what I'd consider to be one of nature's finest foods." Susan brushed from her eyes a few long strands of hair which had strayed from the clip securing her shoulder-length blonde mane off her face while she cooked. "Picture it Steve, will you," she splayed her hands out before her, "The first crop of haricots verts had just reached the farmer's market. My contact informed me pronto. Rushed all the way down to the market during my elevenses, I did. Bustled my way through to the front of the queue and then hand-picked each and every tender, slender stringless bean. Had them carefully packaged and then, still excited about my purchase, called you directly from the square."

"Your shouting at me made me temporarily deaf! It was difficult to catch all the details!"

"Invite the lads to a dinner party for eight o'clock Saturday night. I'll ring the ladies. That was too much information for you to process, was it? And I thought Jane's latest suitor was a little dim."

****_**Meeting Jane's Latest Suitor**_****

_**At the Bar One Evening Recently …**_

_**Steve Taylor:**__ Talk about London fog! I couldn't see more than two feet in front of me this morning. Was pushed right along with the crowd, if can you believe it. Absolutely unreal! Though I'll tell you one thing, being groped at 7am isn't exactly the worst experience in the world! Course I don't know to whom the nimble fingers belonged, but when one's that skilled at copping a feel, who am I to judge?_

_**Jane's Latest Suitor: **__Was able to avoid all that, me._

_**Susan Walker:**__ Were you? Do tell._

_**JLS: **__Well there's Jane, isn't there? I listened to her. _

_**SW:**__ Did you?_

_**JLS: **__Aye. That's what you should've done, mate._

_**ST:**__ What? Listened to Jane's radio report? _

_**JLS: **__Yes. Conditions are congested on the High Street, she said. Seek an alternate route. So I did. _

_**ST:**__ Excuse me but how was that to help? I was on foot._

_**JLS: **__Oh, me as well—morning jog. _

_**SW: **__I'm sorry, I know you and Jane have just met, but you do know what she does for a living yea? _

_**JLS: **__Sure. Air traffic reporter, she is. Responsible job, that. A bit fiddly too, I imagine. Atmosphere's finicky, isn't it? Invisible, one might say. Storms keep bottlenecking, merging in and out, narrowing round bends, bumper to bumper and all that. See? Have already learned the lingo, me. Must be hard work keeping track of the whole lot. _

_**ST:**__ Yes, you see that's air traffic reporter, mate. _

_**JLS: **__Right._

_**ST:**__ She reports the traffic from the air._

_**JLS: **__What, you mean like motor vehicle traffic? _

_**ST:**__ Yes. _

_**JLS: **__ On the motorways? _

_**ST:**__ Yes. _

_**JLS: **__From the air? _

_**ST: **__Yup, in a helicopter. _

_**JLS: **__Does she? Sure you haven't got that the wrong way round? That she reports the actual air traffic from the motorways? Air currents, storms and what not?_

_**SW:**__ We're quite sure, yes._

_**JLS: **__Blimey! That'd explain it then, wouldn't it? _

_**SW:**__ What's that?_

_**JLS: **__Why she keeps referring to the sky as the world's biggest car park. I mean everyone knows that's the M25. _

_******Back to the Dinner Party…******_

_**7:30 pm**_

_**Waiting…**_

Susan paced the kitchen. "There's absolutely nothing worse than when guests arrive late!"

"Isn't there? I'm guessing not in your opinion, but on the other hand, Susan arriving extremely early is clearly just as annoying."

"Not helping, Steve."

"But Susan," Steve's voice softened as he began rubbing her tense shoulders, "look at the time, will you? It's only half seven. Everyone will show by eight. You'll see."

"Well when you're right, Steve, you're right. Thanks. I needed to hear that."

Pleased at how he'd handled—and defused, the situation Steve smugly asked, "Feeling better now? More in control, are you?"

"Yes." Relaxed by the impromptu message, Susan smiled and they kissed.

"Good. Now let's get some perspective here shall we? It's only a dinner party." Steve knew the minute he'd spoken the words what a huge mistake he'd made, a mistake reflected in and proven by Susan's re-tensed shoulders and pretty green eyes widened to the size of saucers.

The constant tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick of the kitchen timer echoed in his ears like a bomb and bore into his brain, scrambling his thoughts. He was just seconds away from an inevitable firestorm, a verbal explosion of the worst kind. His mind carried him off to an imagined place where he, Captain Canteenman clad in tinfoil suit, Clingfilm cape and oven mitt-gloved hands sailed through the air, his imperfectly-matched calves propelling him smoothly forward in a curved course enabling him to successfully pitch the obnoxious timer clear off the shelf and into the dust bin. Crisis averted.

Then reality, and Susan's scolding, accusatory voice brought him soundly round.

"It's only a dinner party? It's only a dinner party, you said? Steve, have you any idea how much thought goes into preparing for a dinner party? Have you? And this one in particular! Once those beans hit that boiling water to blanch for precisely 3 minutes, all I can say is all arses had better be planted in their chairs because dinner will most definitely, unequivocally be served!"

"Susan? Dear," reaching out, Steve attempted to calm her again but she pulled away, "now I'm only asking, love."

"What?"

"If throwing dinner parties causes you so much angst, why bother hosting them?"

"Because, Steve," a frustrated Susan fumed, "they're fun, damn it!"

As if on cue, and perhaps even serving as inanimate referees and peace keepers indicating 'this round's up', the kitchen buzzer sounded followed by the repetitive ringing of the doorbell.

"That'll be Jeff," said Steve, stepping into the safety of the hallway which led directly to the front door.

"Oh yes," quipped Susan, "can always count on him to be early."

"Uh-huh," Steve whispered, "and looks like I've been saved by more than one bell."

"What?"

"Nothing, dear just saying I hope the evening goes well."

"So," catching sight of his multi-colored reflection in a stained glass panel beside the front door, Jeff Murdock took a stab at smoothing down his wild, screwdriver-zapped-in-an-electrical-outlet, untamed hair, "is he here yet?"

"Who's that? Patrick?"

"No, no. I don't mean Maitland. Just left him at the pub chatting up a lass. No, I meant the guest of honor."

"I'm sorry, who?"

"Harry."

"Harry?"

"Yeah, Harry. Is he here yet?" Jeff craned his neck to see down the hall into the flat.

"Sorry, still not following you, Jeff."

"Mmm, smells great in here." By force of habit Jeff walked straight into the kitchen, "Hiya, Susan."

"Jeff." Susan gave both men a warning glare.

Trapping Steve on the threshold between kitchen and hallway, Jeff whispered, "You know, the special guest for her dinner party, the guy you said Susan went on and on about last Thursday. Harry. 'Arry Colbert. (_Pronounced kohl-bair_) I'm assuming he's French, no?"

"No, Jeff."

"No? Oh. So he's French Canadian, eh?"

"No, Jeff," Susan interjected, "once again you've gotten the wrong end of the stick. There is no Harry Colbert."

"Ah, a no show? Sally's going to be disappointed then."

"Why should Sally be disappointed?"

"Well, right after Steve invited me to your dinner party I bumped into Sally and she'd just gotten off the phone with you. When I mentioned Harry Colbert she said she didn't know anything about him."

"As I've said, there is no him. I was referring to haricots verts," stated Susan impatiently, "anyway, why would it matter?"

"Because she said you did mention you were having some sort of a surprise for dinner. So she believes the surprise is for her. She thinks you're fixing her up with a suave, debonair Frenchman."

"Oh for pity sake, I don't believe it! Surprise indeed!"

"See! See! That right there," Steve demanded, "What was that? Were you screaming or shouting just then?"

"She was definitely quasi-shouting."

"Thank you, Jeff," Susan huffed, "now out of the kitchen the pair of you."

"Quasi-shouting," Steve continued their conversation in the living room where the furniture had been pushed aside to allow space for a rectangular center table and chairs.

"Aye don't you know your S-levels, Steve? No worries. A bit of yelp help's what you need, mate. And lucky for you I can teach screech. I'm an expert at _Squawk Talk_."

"You're an expert at what?"

"_Squawk Talk_, detecting whether a woman is screaming or shouting at you. It can be tricky. Sometimes the decibels are nearly the same." Steve looked at him skeptically. "Honest. Here, I'll lay it all out for you. It's a two-step process."

"Oh now this I've got to hear. Go on."

"First you must determine the root of the outburst or what I like to call the _Real Peal_. Screaming is anger-motivated while shouting is motivated by excitement, enthusiasm or disbelief. You have to listen to their words, Steve and take into consideration the context. Then, to figure out the degree to which she's pleased or displeased with you, you place it on the _Wail Scale_."

Steve studied his friend, "In some parallel universe you must have earned your Ph.D. in the Study of Nil. All right, with you so far. You mentioned a _Wail Scale_?"

"Yes. Say you're in bed with a woman."

"Okay, so you're not taking this example from personal experience then, hmm?"

"Don't be a prat, Steve!"

"Sorry mate, continue."

"Okay so you're in bed and the woman calls out your name, that's full-on shouting. It tilts the scale! Bursts your eardrums! But it's a good thing, isn't it? She's giving an appreciative shout out to you and your boys. Now let's say she's just found your stash of porn paraphernalia and she calls out your name. Still splits your eardrums, but more likely than not she's just plain screaming at you. It's anger-based."

"Right, Jeff."

"Course one can be adaptable and find pleasure in both extremes—as I have."

"Have you? How's that now?"

"Simple. If it weren't for women getting angry with me and therefore screaming at me, they'd hardly ever speak to me at all. Anyway, cheers," Jeff handed a bottle of wine to Steve but Susan, having wandered into the living room, her arms full of several serving pieces and utensils intercepted the exchange and busied herself placing bottle and servers on a sideboard.

Steve pointed to a crinkly plastic bag Jeff was still holding, "And what is that, might I ask?"

"What? You want to know what this is, do you?"

"Yes. Is it?"

"Yes, Steve, yes it is," Jeff enthused, "It is! It's it!"

"It's it?"

"Yes!"

"May I open it?"

"Sure. I've already given her the ol' once over. Do as I did, Steve. Cup her in both hands. Feel how evenly she's distributed. How her curves seem to mold right to your hands. All hard body, she is but the middle—it's the sweetest soft spot I've ever come across and easily reachable by both thumbs!"

"Bloody Hell, she's magnificent, Jeff! And her seal hasn't even been broken yet."

"Nah, best to keep her protected until just before her first foray into any unknown realms."

"Right, I mean think of her performance potential, 'eh?"

"Think about our performance potential now, Steve! She's the key to unlocking our performance potential. It'll be performance potential like none we've ever had, known or experienced! It'll be earth shattering!"

"Explosive!"

"Unequaled!"

"Oi! What the hell are you two going on about," Susan insisted.

"Quick Steve, don't think about it, quasi-scream or quasi-shout?"

"It was, um a quasi-scream?"

"Yes! That's right, Steve! You've detected the mid-level anger in her voice! Good on you, mate!"

"Thank you, Jeff," Steve grinned. He turned to Susan, "Here sweetheart, look it's the new wHEE wireless game controller!"

"A game controller, that's what you've gone all gaga over, a stupid game controller?"

"What? Would you rather it to have been porn?"

"Or a porno accessory," Jeff added.

"Look," Steve thrust the controller at Susan, "She's wireless Susan! Wi-re-less!!"

"Oh, please! And you've the nerve to call the brouhaha over my stringless beans silly?"

"Stringless beans? Oh, well there's no way that stringless beans can compare with…"

"Crotchless knickers," Jeff interjected.

"What," yelled both Susan and Steve, "Jeff, please!"

"Sorry," he laughed sheepishly, "entirely different conversation. Carry on."

"You can not compare," Steve continued, "the merits of a wireless controller with that of stringless bloody beans! Even you, Susan Walker, must see there's no contest there! And by the way my dear," Steve called after her as she left the room, "this is how one properly screams!"

"Right," replied Susan, "well you've now just screamed your way onto the sofa for the night. Are you happy, Steve? Because I've got all the wireless controllers I need to keep me happy—and shouting!"

_**7:45 pm**_

_**First Arrivals**_

"Bonjour, Patrick!"

"Hiya, Sal don't you look smashing this evening."

"Merci, you're looking quite dapper yourself." A flattered Sally Harper paid her cab fare and adjusted the pale aqua sequined beret she was wearing set casually askew, "I see you're flying solo tonight. What? Had no date to bring along?"

"Well none appropriately suited for this evening, no."

"Och, how tres terrible, you are! You make choosing a date sound as cavalier as choosing a tie from your vast collection."

"No never," Patrick Maitland gravely rebuked, "Choosing the right tie is a serious undertaking, Sally. One must never jest about tie choice."

"Oh, well, excusez-moi!"

"No problem. And where's your plus one, hmm?"

"Ah, Patrick, mon frère, the night's still young!"

"Okay," Patrick hesitated, "not sure I know what that's supposed to mean but in any case, may I escort you to the Walker-Taylor residence, Ms. Harper?"

"Well only if you deem me worthy enough to be seen with you, Monsieur Maitland."

"Quite! In the world of men's neckwear, Sal you're a white, silk bowtie!"

_**8:15 pm**_

_**Getting Down to the Wire**_

Steve entered the kitchen to find a very calm Susan grinding a peppermill over a bowl of greens. He closed the door behind him. "Susan? Everything's under control in here, yea?"

"Yes, of course, Steve. Why wouldn't it be?"

"Don't know. Regarding before...are we calling a truce, you and I?"

"Yes, yes. And are you taking care of our guests? It's always proper for one host to stay and mingle while the other pops round behind the scenes."

"I can safely report all angles are covered."

"Are they," asked Susan suspiciously, "Why?"

"Patrick's poured the wine."

"No doubt he's also attempted to educate the minions on the subtle differences separating Beaujolais from Cabernet Sauvignon. I think he, at times, fancies himself a sommelier."

"Yes, well, let me put it this way. Sally, who incidentally brought a box of brie cheese and a loaf of French bread along with her customary bottle of wine, was quite amused! And where Patrick lost the others, Jeff captured interest by telling us a fascinating story about fishing for lobsters in the Thames."

"What?"

"Yup, apparently he doesn't use a net!"

"A net, doesn't he mean a trap? Are there even lobsters in the river Thames? Nope, nope, forget it," she shook her head vigorously, "don't want to know the answer to that. But tell me, how's Jane's date? What's-his-name? Houston? Or Tucson is it?"

"Denver."

"Ah yes, knew it was one of those big city names from across the pond."

"It seems his last name's Zend. And get this, said we can call him Denz."

"Did he?" Susan chuckled, "So he's Jane's dense Denz."

"Uh-huh."

"He's getting along all right with everyone then?"

"Fell right in with Jeff. They've made plans to go river fishing with Harry Colbert."

"You're kidding? And speaking of, has Sally stopped looking in all the rooms for the illusive Frenchman? I thought I even heard her opening all the cupboards in the loo."

"Disappointed but still holding out hope, I think. Course she hasn't said a word."

"No, she won't, either. But you wait. It'll all come spilling out soon as dessert's served and she's still sitting alone. Accusations will fly!"

"Well I'll do my best to help you smooth things over with her. But really it's Jeff who's to blame! With misunderstandings it's nearly always Jeff who's to blame!"

"Right okay," Susan wiped her hands on her apron, "I've finished dressing the salad and have dropped the beans into the boiling water. I just need a few more minutes here and then dinner is…" The doorbell rings. "Oh crikey! Who could that be? Did you invite anyone else, Steve?"

"No. Did you?"

"No, no of course I didn't! I don't know if I've enough haricots verts to go around! And it's a small leg of lamb! And what if one of them is a vegetarian?"

"Um you know there's a pair standing on our doorstep, do you?"

"Yes, stands to reason there are two Steve, yes. It's the law of probabilities or something!"

"Well you could always serve some of what Jane brought. Though she's only a suit-vegan, surely the dish is vegetarian."

"She's a suit-vegan?"

"Yea she's a vegetarian only when suitable."

"Clever. Anyhow, have you seen the crap," Susan snapped her fingers, fumbling for the right word, "I meant the crock, the crock Jane brought?"

"Yes," Steve lifted a misshapen earthenware container, "supposed to be macaroni cheese, this. She made it herself, mind and is quite proud of it."

"Which do you mean the crockery or the cookery?"

"Both? Apparently macaroni cheese is Denz's favorite dish."

"Is it? But hers is decidedly grey!"

"The crockery or the cookery," Steve repeated, laughing, "I don't believe Jane eats dairy cheese."

"What other kind is there?"

"Don't know, soy maybe? Susan what's happened to you? Not a second ago you were as cool as a cuke."

"Cool as a cuke? Who says that? Cool as a cuke." The doorbell rings again. "Bollocks! Bollocks! Bollocks! My perfectly timed schedule's gone to pot! Think Susan, think!"

"Won't someone please get the door," cried a flushed Sally, stumbling into the hallway and breathing quite heavily.

"I'm getting it Sal," Steve assured her from the kitchen.

"Oh no, my beans," exclaimed Susan, "they've been boiling for an extra thirty seconds! I must plunge them into the ice water bath to stop the cooking process and preserve their color! I must concentrate! No distractions! I need to be alone with my haricots verts! Go get the door! Now, Steve!"

"Steve," Sally's disembodied voice called out urgently again, "shall I get the door? I've spent way too much time stretching my smile muscles already!"

"No, Sal, I've got it," Steve yelled a second time through the closed kitchen door, "Bloody hell," he said to himself, "I bet she thinks that's Harry." He turned his attention back to Susan. "Get hold of yourself, Susan. Just look at you. You don't even know who's out there. It could be a Hoover salesman for all we know."

"At half past eight at night?"

"Right, no. I s'pose not. Who knows, maybe it is Harry," he joked.

"Then send him off packing with Sal."

Steve snuck out of the kitchen, nearly bumping into Sally.

"Why's the kitchen door closed," Sally inquired.

"So that no one disturbs Susan while she's putting the finishing touches on the meal."

"Right, yes, right," said Sally, shaking her head as if understanding some unspoken secret. "The grand reveal, 'eh?"

"Are you all right, Sal?"

"Oui! Oui! Why don't you go and get the door, Steve."

Curiosity getting the better of Steve he did just that, while an equally curious Sally crept over to the closed kitchen door and put an ear to its white painted surface.

"Oh my blessed haricots verts," Susan spoke tenderly to the veg, "you've come through for me, haven't you? Beautifully stalk straight and tall, smooth, dark and unblemished. Look at you waiting there all bathed, primped and ready, keeping our little secret mum. The minute your sweet, lemon-scented essence is breathed in and your slightly salty skin is touched by patient, expectant lips. Complete nirvana."

"I'm here," said a breathless Sally, bursting into the kitchen, "Let me at him! Where's Harry?"

"What? Sally? What are you doing?"

Misinterpreting what she'd overheard and finding only Susan in the kitchen, Sally screamed, "Nothing." She took a quick, very obvious squint behind the door and beneath the table, then exclaimed, "The front door," and ran in the opposite direction.

Susan's prediction being spot on, Steve could certainly see two shadowy shapes through the frosted glass partitions of the front door. But the question still remained. Who the devil were they?


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

_**Adonis**_

It took all of Steve's reserve to resist his knee-jerk reaction to immediately close the door on the mismatched couple standing before him. Though having only met him once prior, Steve instantly identified the tall, good-looking chap with the wide, syrupy smile plastered across his face as none other than Susan's former love interest, the army-lad-gone-A.W.O.L. Paul. And he hoped against hope that the shorter, unfamiliar female dressed in jeans and fitted suede jacket standing beside him, a distinctly uncertain half-smile spoiling her otherwise pleasant facial features, was Paul's latest paramour.

"Hi," said Paul, his clipped Yorkshire accent prominent even from his first uttered syllable, "Steve, is it? Remember me? It's Paul," he waited for recognition, "Suzy's friend Paul. We met at the pub. It's been some time now. You probably don't recall."

"Right," Steve feigned surprise. He most assuredly did remember the man who'd had a rather lengthy and intimate fling with, as Paul referred to her, _his Suzy_, though Steve hadn't even know Susan back then, in their college years. "Adonis," Steve greeted him, Paul unaware of the snide remark made, the moniker a jealous, confidence-lacking-in-the-presence-of-this-particular-bloke Steve had dubbed the muscularly-framed, all around goodly-natured chap per his last visit.

"Nope, not Paul Adonis," said an oblivious Paul, "that's Bowman. My name's Paul Bowman. Well," he said with elation, "it's actually Paul Bowman-MacDonald now."

"Ah, is it? Have taken the wife's name, have you," said Steve sarcastically, nodding at the female standing next to Paul, "That's brilliant! Guess I didn't take you for the progressive sort. Elope did you?"

"I'm sorry? Elope," Paul questioned, confused, "Oh," he finally got the gist of Steve's comments, but only just, "no, no, this isn't my wife," Paul put his arms around the woman, "This here is Isobel, my girlfriend Isobel. Why did you take her for my wife?"

"It's your hyphenated name, Paul," Isobel pointed out, her patience waning, "Bowman-MacDonald. It was a joke. At your expense, no less," she said over her shoulder. With a wry grin she sized up the perceptive Steve, "Hiya," equally sharp-witted and keen, Isobel extended her hand, her shake firm and sure, "It is Steve, right? Isobel Anderson. Good to meet you. Sorry for the intrusion. Probably just nipped out for a curry take-away, put your feet up to watch a footy match, 'eh?"

"No, not exactly," said Steve, trying to keep any annoyance out of his voice. He desperately wished he could usher the pair off the front stoop before Susan learned of their presence.

"Only Paul insisted your flat was a must-see on our London excursion," explained Isobel. "Damn-near have the feeling it's the only reason we came," she laughed forcibly. "Well. Seems we're on queue here for a viewing with the Queen, doesn't it? Least it does to me. But we're here to see Susan, yea? Your girlfriend, I presume?"

"Yes Susan, my steady girlfriend, Susan Walker, yes," Steve turned away at the sound of what he thought was Susan's approach, questioning his territorial, insistent need to label Susan as his steady.

"No, I meant behind you," said Isobel.

"Blimey, not me," screeched Sally, "I'm a white silk bow-tie! And neither of you are a handsome Frenchman!" She stomped back down the hall, pushing past Susan, mumbling something inaudible about semi-soft brie leading to semi-soft hips.

Her comportment not betraying her formerly disheveled self, Susan, completely void of cooking gear, her honeyed hair let loose from the plastic clip, graciously glided down the corridor. "Steve? Who is it, darling?"

"Definitely not the Hoover salesman," said Steve, stepping out of the way of their guests.

"Please, invite whomever it is in. Paul," exclaimed Susan, stopping short. She laughed nervously, "Paul Bowman? What the heck are you doing back here…so soon? All the way down here in London!"

"Ah," Steve couldn't resist pointing out, "it's actually Paul Bowman-MacDonald now, dear," emphasizing, with a sardonic half smile—which Isobel did happen to notice, the pronunciation of Paul's new last name.

"Bowman-MacDonald," eyeing Isobel, Susan became momentarily puzzled. "Get married, did you? No, wait, what am I saying? That wouldn't make sense. You wouldn't be taking her name would you? That would be bucking the system, Paul. Not really your cuppa is it?"

"Ha! You've got that right," Isobel rolled her eyes, "Guess there's no questioning you knowing him well, huh? Hi, Susan I'm Isobel by the way. And before Paul here bursts a gasket let me set the record straight, shall I?" Isobel held up her hands wriggling them back and forth, every finger void of jewelry, "Girlfriend, not wife."

"Oh, I see," said Susan, wondering if Paul had brought her round for approval.

"And as for my name," explained Paul, "remember when I last left it was just after my mother had passed away and I was en route north to find the father I never knew? Well I did. Find him, I mean. I'm no longer an orphan!"

"But still a bastard," whispered Steve under his breath.

"Well, technically I am still an orphan because as it turns out he's dead as well! Always a day late and a pound short, me," Paul laughed. "Though it wasn't all for naught. At least I now know who he was, my dad—the former laird of Glenbogle!"

"The former laird of what," Steve questioned.

"Of Glenbogle—it's in Scotland, mate. And were it not for my quest to find a one Hector Naismith MacDonald—that was m'dad's name, I never would have found Isobel!"

_**8:45 pm**_

_**Idle Chatter**_

"Here we go," Susan began handing dishes round the now cramped table. "First course, wilted salad."

"Wilted salad? Is that like potted meat or pickled herring, Susan," asked Denver. "Is this recipe new, something you've created? Or is it always made this way? It's quite tasty."

"Hmm, you've put feta cheese in the salad, Susan?"

"I have, Isobel. I'm assuming that's all right? Not allergic or anything," answered Susan flippantly, "I've a Greek theme going on here as I'm serving lamb with garlic and lemon."

"Yes and I detect a bit of oregano too, don't I?" Sensitive to Susan's icy delivery, Isobel added, "I only meant that the feta's sharp taste pairs well with the aggressive flavors of the mixed greens. Most people use Chevre in salads and I, often times, find it much too mild, bland even."

"You know Isobel," said Patrick, all of his attention focused on his friends' attractive Scottish guest, "I could never quite put my finger on what it was about Chevre that left me unsatisfied, but you're quite right. It's bland, ordinary! Feta is way more scintillating, you know, in a sensorial way. And, I dare say, it strikes a great balance in this salad."

"Ah," said Sally, a clear edge to her voice, "do we have a gourmand or two in our midst?"

"Well no," stated Isobel plainly, "it was just an observation."

"Yes," Patrick reinforced, "it was just an observation, Sal."

"_Oh no,"_ Sally thought to herself, "_I can feel my arse spreading, oozing like melted brie out over the sides of the chair. I'm an oozing, melting blob of gooey brie. What was I thinking? Bringing a wheel of fat? To impress a Frenchman who isn't even here yet. I bet Isobel's arse isn't oozing off her seat, no. She eats non-fat, scintillating feta!"_ But before her brain caught up with her mouth, she blurted aloud, "My favorite's brie!"

"Another mild cheese that is, brie," offered Isobel.

"Yes, but it is rich."

"Quite," agreed Isobel. "But talk about ordinary, Patrick! Not really worth the calories for something so tasteless, is it?"

"To answer you Denz," said Susan, redirecting the conversation, "I'd call this salad an accidental miracle. I mean who knew a salad dressed nearly half an hour ago could still pass muster." Her comment, meant to be biting, stung her guest.

"Och, that's our fault, isn't it," said Isobel. "We, Paul and I, have disrupted your nice dinner party, haven't we? I can only offer you our apologies once again, Susan. It was kind of you and Steve to invite us in."

"Don't mention it," said the hostess, feeling the slightest twinge of guilt about her snippy attitude, "It's our pleasure."

"And you've brought a descent bottle of wine, _Château Ver ye Mar Velous_," said Patrick, raising his filled wine glass, "That's always a plus in my book."

"I brought wine," Sally spoke up, seemingly apropos of nothing.

"Yes, Sally and we finished off your middling vintage with starters, didn't we?"

Cutlery clinked and scraped against china for several long minutes as the diners quietly tucked into their salads, all casting furtive glances amongst one another.

Susan finally broke the silence, "On to the second course now everyone, yea," she suggested brightly, "Steve? Would you do us the honor of carving the lamb?"

"Thankfully," said Jane rather loudly, "I've considered the needs of those amongst us who don't partake in the consumption of meat and have brought along my autograph dish."

"I think you mean your signature dish, don't you, Jane?"

"Do I, Susan? Whatever."

"What is it," asked Paul.

"Macaroni cheese made with wheat free, flour free, gluten free pasta and dairy free cheese and milk. Oh and there's a smidge of nutless nutmeg, too. In case anyone has nut allergies. Here, let me pass it round. Maybe I can convert one of you."

"What? With that greige mush," said Steve under his breath, "not going to happen."

"Oi, Steve! I heard that. When we dated you used to eat everything I cooked. Remember my famous casseroles?"

"Infamous they were, maybe and yes, Jane I remember, but do you also recall the only common ingredient that made them at all palatable to me was a generous dousing of brown sauce?"

"Well Denz loves my cooking. And he doesn't smother it in any of that icky brown sauce either, do you Denny?"

"Nope, I most definitely do not. Never ever douse 'em with brown sauce. I much prefer hot pepper sauce, m'self."

Reaching for the crock, Paul said, "I'll take a helping, Jane," he smiled and winked at the outspoken woman, setting off Isobel's sensors.

"Brave, you are," whispered Patrick.

"How bad can it be," Paul quietly reasoned, "A bit like army rations, isn't it? Of which I've had my share. I'm used to tasteless fare."

Meanwhile, using a pair of golden tongs, Susan began placing an exact number of beans—an uneven number for luck—onto each person's plate.

"Mmm," said Isobel, "haricots verts? Lovely."

"Harry Colbert is lovely? And how would you know that," asked a desperate Sally.

"Pardon?"

Quite pleased Isobel had picked up on the star side dish of the evening and eager to, once again, divert discussion, Susan questioned, "Where does your interest in food come from, Isobel? Are you a chef?"

"Oh no," Isobel laughed, "hardly."

"She's a farmer, my Isobel is," said Paul, beaming proudly.

"A farmer," said the lot in unison.

"Well yes," replied Isobel, uncomfortably, "I now run the farm my Gran used to own in Scotland. But, I haven't always done…"

"Keep cattle and chickens, do you?"

"Aye, Jane, and I raise pigs too, yes. Livestock they are, really."

"Livestock," questioned Jane dramatically.

"Well yes, though it's a relatively small acreage I have."

"Bah, it's just as I suspected! A deadstock farmer's what you are!"

"I'm sorry?"

"You're a deadstock farmer. You raise the animals for food."

"Well no, Jane it's not that simple."

"When they're born they're as good as dead, yea?"

"So says the suit-vegan," replied Steve passing the tray of lamb in the opposite direction, "Here we go again."

"Well aren't they," Jane insisted.

"No. I mean yes, occasionally an animal is culled, sure. But mostly I farm them for what they produce while alive. Their donations, if you will. That's how I like to think of it. Their donations pay my bills."

"Hmph," Jeff cut in, "Didn't think it was compatible, that."

"What," Isobel cautiously asked.

"Their blood, I mean, 'eh?"

"What do you mean their blood?" Isobel feared the direction the conversation was going in and wished someone would change the subject.

"You know. The donations from the animals well, it's their blood isn't it?"

"No," Isobel laughed incredulously, "I meant milk from the cows and goats, eggs from the chickens, wool and sometimes even milk from the sheep."

"Oh, that's a relief," Jeff smiled, "because I was wondering. What you'd be doin' with all that blood. Not that I thought you a vampire. I mean your eye teeth are a little on the longish side but not exceptionally so. They're not vampiric or anything. Course you could be into that sort of thing. I s'pose we'd need to check Paul's neck to be sure though, 'eh? See if there are any bite marks."

"Yes thank you, Jeff," said Susan.

"So, no free borders at Isobel's," Jane pressed the issue, "Got them all working for their keep?"

"Well yes. Their donations are how I support myself now, Jane. Their contributions are vital to my cottage industry."

Jeff looked up, his fork poised above his plate he stabbed it forward to make another point. "Their donations are vital, yea? Imagine if we could, though. I mean if we humans could accept donations from animals. It could open up a whole new field, couldn't it? Blood banks could use the donations, surely. And what about vital organs," Jeff paused in thought.

"Dear Lord, vital organs?"

"Yes. And think of the other possibilities too, Steve. If a man were say short changed in a certain department. He could have himself a transplant to enhance himself. Call it an enhance-plant."

"Yes, Jeff," said Susan, "we have the picture and we're eating, for goodness sake! Do spare us, please."

"Besides," ribbed Steve, "think Patrick's already been that route."

"Yes," spoke Sally energetically, "I agree." Sensing all eyes were on her, especially Patrick's—though knowledge of his generously-blessed endowment certainly wasn't a secret amongst the group—Sally felt a redness creeping up her neck, seeping into her cheeks in a bloom of deep pink blush. "I meant that I agree with Jeff," she stammered, trying to explain her outburst and preserve a modicum of her dignity, "perhaps then Steve could get an enhance-plant for his underdeveloped left calf! Like breast implants, only these would be for the calves."

"Oh Sal, that would be fantastic," exclaimed Jeff, "Brilliant! Breast implants where calves should be—calf breasts. On women that would be quadruple the pleasure!" Jeff spoke in falsetto, "My real breasts might be a tad on the small side but wait 'til you check out my calf breasts!"

"Susan!" Steve stood up from the table, "How could you? That was told to you in confidence!"

"I never said a word, Steve! If you hadn't noticed, I've been a little pre-occupied this evening entertaining all of our friends!"

"Well I think," said Jane, her voice husky and seductive, "that Paul's calves are amazing. All even and muscular, they are. He's one chap who definitely could do without enhance-plants."

"Yes, you're quite right," said Isobel, "I do agree with you there, Jane."

"It wouldn't do, though if a woman had kankles," Jeff hypothesized. "If a woman with kankles got enhance-plants there'd be too much leg flesh. Not enough separation between calf breasts and ankles. There's got to be a clear separation between calf breasts and ankles. Otherwise they'd just look like two sagging breasts. Old lady breasts, like my mother's—four huge, sagging old lady breasts!"

"Wait," Isobel laced into Jane, "just how is it you're privy to this knowledge about Paul's calves? Paul? How does she know about your muscular calves? I thought you dated Susan? You said nothing of Jane!"

"Can we please focus on me for a moment," Steve implored.

"There's a simple remedy for your condition, Steve. Try one-legged squats."

"Yes, thank you Paul. Learn that whilst in prison, did you?"

"Prison," Isobel questioned, shocked, "You never mentioned you'd done time, Paul!"

"Yes," Jane purred, "I've slept with a fugitive! I was Paul's nick knack."

"A fugitive, what were you running from?"

"Relax, Isobel," replied Jane, "it wasn't anything serious, was it? Hadn't you simply gone over a wall or something, Paul?"

"I'd gone A.W.O.L., Isobel. It was right after my mother passed away. Instead of returning to the regiment, I went searching for my father."

"Oh Paul," said a softened Isobel, familiar with only a limited amount of his background, "that must have been a horrible time for you. Imagine it must've taken you some guts to turn yourself in."

"Well, it was the right thing to do, wasn't it?"

"Unbelievable! Again," Steve grumbled, "the Adonis manages to upstage me!"

"Wouldn't worry about it, mate," said Jeff. "It's all in the perspective you take, Steve. Don't think of your left calf as being underdeveloped; think of the right as being overdeveloped.

"Oh aye, play much at sports, do you?"

"Not unless you consider wHEE Game System sport," Susan snidely commented.

"Excuse me, Susan a little support here, please?"

"Right, go on then Denz. For the sake of argument, why did you ask if my beau here's a sportsman?"

"Well if he's a footballer then he's got Kicker's Calf, hasn't he?"

"Kicker's Calf?"

"Aye, Kicker's Calf," Denver clarified, "you know when one leg becomes more conditioned due to overuse. It's called Kicker's Calf. Though can't imagine the term's exclusive to footy. You'd think it'd have a negative sound about it, wouldn't you? Much like Tennis Elbow or Runner's Knee, call it Kicker's Curse."

"Hmm, doesn't sound like our Peg Leg, does it?"

"Pele, huh," said Steve, chuffed. "I mean yes, it's true, have played some football in my time. But don't think I'm yet qualified for the nickname Pele."

"Not Pele, Steve you daft bloke, she said Peg Leg."

"Peg Leg!? So, you've discussed my deficiency with them, Susan, have you?"

"Well of course she has, Steve," said a matter of fact Jane. "How else are we ladies to know how our own boyfriends compare? Which couples we're better off then? We've standards, haven't we? It's cutthroat. And yes, we're ruthless."

"I take exception to that! It's just like you women, isn't it?" Steve paced in front of his guests like a confident lawyer striding assuredly before a captive jury box. "See we men, when we toss back a few pints at a local pub and have a proper chin-wag with our mates you'd never hear us knocking our women, would you? No. Not judging them. Not laughing at their trivial idiosyncrasies. And why, you wonder? Is it because we males are the more civilized gender? Further along on the evolutionary chain? No? No. Because we men put our women up on pedestals, we do. Huge, blasted Corinthian columns they are. You, the whole lot of you, you're the top, in our opinion, the centers of our universes, the apples of our eyes. Your pulchritude, believed sacrosanct. But do you, you of the double X chromosomes, do you extend this courteousness toward the XY's in your lives? Ever turn a blind eye to our copious faults? Treat us equally unbiased? No, no. What do you do? You pick us apart! First chance you get. Pick, pick, pick! Over a bottle of wine and little bits of nibbles and canapés you commiserate, cherishing the dastardly act of critiquing your men behind their unsuspecting backs. Tearing us down like bulldozers bent on felling buildings of brick and steel. You discuss, with relish, things like underdeveloped calves, receding hairlines, stomach paunch and then, finally, tackle the issues of the nether regions. But we lads, we follow an unwritten code. Mates are willing to overlook your gapped front teeth, to not notice uneven breasts, ignore your carnal lists of unaccepted positions, and disregard blonde roots in dire need of a touch up. Oh yes, hens, despite bravely feigning disinterest in your latest coiffure we do notice when your roots need touching up! But we have the bloody decency to keep mum about it! Call it the chivalrous harkening of King Arthur's court, the last vestiges of knights in shining armor. In our eyes, we believe that you are, quite simply, perfect."

Steve resumed his seat at the head of the table and with a flourish placed his napkin in his lap. "Dessert, Susan?"

_**Post Dessert**_

_**Saying Goodnight**_

The evening having ended with a bit of measured laughter and polite small talk, guests and hosts, both congregated by the front door.

"So, have you two booked a room in town?"

"Yes, Susan," answered Isobel, inching her body closer to the exit, "at The Imperial."

"Wow, the Imperial? A bit posh for a farmer, 'eh?"

"Steve," Susan admonished with an elbowing to the ribs.

"Right, Steve. Haven't always been a farmer," Isobel was quick to clarify. "Know the City quite well. In fact, back in Edinburgh when I was wheeling and dealing, as they say, trips down to London were a biweekly must. I've still maintained my connections here."

"Will your London stay be lengthy?"

"Why? Thinking we might do lunch?" Isobel took a deep breath, wishing her reply hadn't sounded so snarky, "No, actually. I've some business to take care of in the morning then we'll be heading back after tea."

"Yes," Paul offered, "she's got chutney and pickles to vend."

"Chutney and Pickles," Steve chortled, "Is that a new rock band or something? Let's hear it for Chutney 'n Pickles latest hit, _Relish, Delish_!"

Isobel rolled her eyes. She'd hoped Paul wouldn't mention the real reason they'd come to London. "They're items from my line of homemade foodstuffs."

"_Isobel's Edibles_," Paul cheerfully volunteered.

"_Isobel's Edibles_,oh right, that would be the cottage industry you mentioned earlier, Isobel. Well, we must try some. Where will they be sold?"

"In a few of the gourmet shops downtown, fingers crossed. Though, tomorrow's just a formality, really. Papers need signing, you know how it is. Are we ready, Paul?"

"Sure," Isobel reached for the door latch, but Paul turned back to the group, "Hey, I've a brilliant idea!"

"Do you, Paul, really? Because it's nearing half ten—we should be going. I've an early rise tomorrow."

"Yes, well they're our mates, aren't they? You can't expect them to purchase your chutney retail."

"What do you suggest I do? Give them chits for discounts?"

"No, no. They can sample them fresh. On the premises! Brilliant, isn't it? You'll have to come up to Glenbogle, that's where I've chosen to reside."

"Visit Glenbogle," Susan nervously replied.

"Yes, the whole lot of you. We'll fix up some rooms in the estate, after all there are forty some odd, or, if you prefer, you could stay in one of the crofts on the property. It'll be a cracking good time."

"Will it," said Steve, mockingly, "Well, we'll certainly pencil you in."

"Great! I'll ring Suzy with the details."

"Really must educate you in the subtleties of sarcasm, Paul," whispered Isobel under her breath.

"Oh aye," Jeff enthused, "definitely! How's the fishing up north in them lochs, Paul? Got any freshwater lobsters need catching?"

"Doubt that. But there's plenty of salmon."

"Mmm, I love salmon!"

"Do you, Jane? But what about that whole anti-meat thing you feel so strongly about?"

"What about it, Denz?"

"Well isn't that where butchers get salmon steaks from, salmon?"

And so the evening ended…

Memories of another well-intentioned-turned-slightly-barmy dinner party recorded in the annals of posterity.

_**The End…**_

_**Almost…**_

Amongst bawdy guffaws, ponderings whether or not Denz was for real, amidst half-hearted, though genuine goodnights, goodbyes, and wishes for safe journeys home, near and distant, a disenchanted Sally Harper slipped away into the night. She was half way down the street by the time Patrick reached her.

"That was some night, huh Sal?"

"Yes, some night."

"Share a cab?"

"Doesn't really make sense, does it, Patrick? You're going uptown and I'm…well, I'm not, am I."

"Right and don't suppose you'd fancy a night cap?"

"A night cap, hmm?"

"Only this mate of mine's opened up a little jewel of a place a bit off the beaten path. It's a cozy lounge over on Arcane Court, called Harry C's."

"Harry C's," questioned Sally, her voice redolent with disbelief.

"Yes. Have you heard of it?"

"No," she laughed, "no, sorry I haven't."

"The owner swears it's named after his father but I have a sneaking suspicion it might have to do with a silent partner, the C actually standing for Connick, Jr. or something."

"Uh-huh, it's a good theory."

"Well it's a nice place. It's different, quiet. They serve only the finest liquors. Music's easy listening but not what you'd call iconic 'lift' music. It's contemporary with a classic edge. Good place to talk."

"So you've been before?"

"I was invited opening night, yes."

"Ah, I see."

"Well I hadn't a date that evening."

"Yes, I know the spiel. No one quite fit your criteria as appropriate arm candy for an evening out swaying to smooth jazz."

"No, Sal. That's not what I meant. I was waiting to ask someone special."

"Oh…"

_**The End**_


End file.
